


ven cerca

by annejumps



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eddie Kaspbrak Has ADHD, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Established Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Exhibitionism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25055431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: Maybe Eddie should have closed his eyes, pretended he was jerking off alone and Richie wasn’t there, but… he doesn’t want to do that, he wants to watch Richie watching him, and not just to make sure he just keeps looking and doesn’t look away. He thinks, at this point, that he deserves to enjoy being looked at.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 21
Kudos: 201





	ven cerca

Every so often, Eddie will catch Richie staring at him, and then Richie will quickly look away and pretend like he wasn’t doing it. 

Eddie’s not quite sure what to make of it, because after all, they are Capital-T Together now and it’s not like it’s weird to look at your boyfriend, is it? 

He wonders if Richie’s monitoring him or something, like he expects the stitches on his side to reopen, like Eddie would have to be carried to safety again. Which would be a stupid thing to think—It’s claw got his side before Richie shoved him out of the way, yes, but he was fine now, and they were living together in Richie’s apartment, not a sewer.

“What?” Eddie will say, kind of irritably. It’s just kind of annoying feeling like he’s being checked on, that’s all. It reminds him of a time in his life he’d rather forget about. Several times, actually.

“Nothing,” Richie will say quickly every time, a flash of what almost looks like panic crossing his face before he carefully schools it and changes the subject. What the fuck?

It keeps happening. Eddie can practically feel his gaze on him like a touch, or like his eyes are burning into him, but he always acts like he’s been caught doing something wrong whenever Eddie looks at him and raises a brow.

“Seriously, Rich, what,” Eddie says one morning over breakfast, a little huffy. “Do I have spinach in my teeth? What?”

“No! That’s not—” Richie’s face is turning pink. “I wasn’t— Your face is fine, no better or worse than normal.”

Eddie narrows his eyes at him. He does still have a pretty good-sized scar from Bowers’ knife on his left cheek, as can be expected considering it was forcefully inserted into his face, but Richie’s never seemed to notice it before, and it doesn’t seem like the type of thing he’d care about. Eddie lightly touches the scar, and Richie’s eyes widen for a moment. He gasps. 

“No! It’s not that, Eds, I don’t care about your scar, honestly I don’t. I barely even notice it, man. If I do, I think it looks cool. I swear.”

“Then what are you—” Eddie’s honestly baffled. If Richie’s not monitoring him or something, and his scar really isn’t grossing him out, he’s not sure what Richie could be doing. 

“Nothing! I’m not doing anything.” Richie stands abruptly, gathers up the empty dishes, and takes them to the sink. 

Even though his designated alarm goes off as usual, Eddie gets distracted and forgets to take his Adderall. By the time he realizes, it’s too late to make up for it that day. He so rarely messes up with anything like that that he’s pretty frustrated with himself, and does his best to chalk it up to this just being one of those days. It’s tempting to blame Richie for being distracting, but he can’t really do that. 

Somewhat at sea when it comes to trying to focus on the tasks he’d hoped to accomplish today, Eddie ends up observing Richie, who’s puttering around and getting some of his shit done because _he_ didn’t forget to take _his_ meds, for once. (Actually, in fairness, he’s generally pretty good with that—although Eddie sometimes helps with the reminding.)

Eddie always thinks Richie looks good, but for some reason, he looks hotter than usual today. He’s freshly showered, in an old clinging t-shirt (the one with the sriracha label) and his lounge pants, and he’s barefoot and comfortable-looking. Eddie isn’t sure what about him today makes him look even more appealing than usual, but it’s something, and Eddie finds himself watching him move around the apartment from his place on the couch, where he’s given up trying to focus on the article about the development of later-in-life allergies open on his laptop. Richie whistles to himself, runs a hand through his damp hair, bends over to pick some things up, stretches to yawn. He’s so tall, his shoulders are so broad, and that soft, thin shirt looks obscene stretched over his chest and arms and back like that….

Eddie only realizes he’s staring when Richie stops and looks at him, and quirks a brow. 

“What?” Richie asks.

Eddie feels his face turning red. “Nothing,” he says, and swallows, looking down. Just as soon, he’s looking up at Richie again, and Richie notices.

He shrugs. “Hey, dude, if I’m not cleaning right—”

“No, you’re fine,” Eddie interrupts hastily. “Don’t worry about me. I’m…. I forgot my Adderall.”

“Ah,” Richie says, nodding, as if that explains everything including the staring. And maybe it does. But….

As annoying as it is to not be able to put his mind to reading or something useful, it is admittedly nice to just sit here and look at Richie, who once he’s more or less done with what he’s doing sits himself down on the chaise, which accommodates his ridiculously long legs, and picks up his coffee. His mug reads _BLOW ME: I AM HOT_ , and Eddie ponders crawling over there and blowing him. Maybe. Eventually.

Richie relaxes with a sigh, and then glances over to Eddie, looking comically surprised when he catches Eddie staring again— Oh.

_Oh_.

Huh. Okay.

“I see you looking at me a lot, you know,” Eddie says, and this apparently catches Richie flatfooted, considering he’d just caught _Eddie_ staring at _him_. Brow furrowing, Richie suddenly looks upset, frowning, lips parting like he’s about to say something before he apparently thinks better of it, and swallows, like he’s nervous. 

“I mean, yeah, I guess?” Richie shifts uncomfortably against the back of the chaise, and takes a long drink of his coffee. “Sorry?” he mutters into the mug, his ears going red.

“No, no,” Eddie says. “Don’t apologize. I thought you were like… monitoring me for signs of injury, or something.”

Richie looks surprised, and laughs. “Aren’t you pretty much healed up, at this point?”

“Yeah, I just…. Didn’t know why else you’d be looking at me.”

Richie looks nonplussed. “I mean….” he says slowly, and then trails off. 

“I also don’t get why you always act like I’ve caught you doing something bad, when I see you doing it,” Eddie continues. “Like you think I’ll be mad at you, or something.”

Richie swallows again. “Well, come on, man,” he says, coffee mug still raised to his face, “years of knowing you could get your ass kicked if someone caught you staring does tend to have an affect on your, you know, psyche.” He looks very uncomfortable now.

Eddie feels his heart break a little. “Oh shit. Rich,” he breathes. “Sweetheart. You’re allowed to look, now.”

Richie squirms. “Right. I know, it’s just…. It’s a habit,” he finally says. 

“What, with me? Or with any guy.”

“Well.” Richie clears his throat. “With any guy it’s kinda there, but especially you, because you were always around and I’d always be afraid you’d yell at me and make a big deal out of it.” Eddie never would have been one of the guys who’d have seriously kicked Richie’s ass for looking at him, that was for damn sure, and he thinks Richie knows that, yet he’d still been scared of… offending him? Getting caught?

“Oh. Did I? Make a big deal out of it?”

“Sometimes. ‘What are you looking at, Richie?’, you know. I mean, you weren’t like... really mean about it, but I was always afraid you would be. So... I tried not to let myself look at you too much or too long. I guess. But I really wanted to, and sometimes I couldn't help it.” He swallows, like that admission hurts, like he’s still afraid Eddie will admonish him.

“I don’t really remember doing that,” Eddie confesses, “if that helps. And it certainly doesn’t matter now. Fuck, Rich, you can look at me all you want now.”

With an expression that’s almost shy, Richie looks down into his mug and then takes a sip. “Okay, man,” he says. He shrugs, just slightly. 

Eddie sets the laptop aside, on the opposite side of the couch from the chaise. “Rich,” he says, something in him wanting Richie to look up, to stop meekly looking at whatever coffee he has left in there. 

When Richie does look at him, Eddie slides down the couch a bit and gets his hand in his lounge pants, which happen to be the only thing he’s wearing since he doesn’t always like to put too many clothes on right after a shower, not if he doesn’t have anywhere to go—and it’s Saturday, at least. Richie’s eyebrows shoot comically up his forehead, and his mouth drops open slightly. 

Eddie wriggles a bit as he tugs his pants down to his thighs with his free hand, freeing his cock and the hand wrapped around it to Richie’s stare. He’s rapidly getting harder, and he makes a show of stroking himself into a full erection. Maybe it takes longer now than it did when he was younger, but Richie certainly doesn’t seem to care. 

He rolls his thumb over the tip of his cock, shuddering a little, and gives himself a squeeze. He lets his shoulders go slack a little, lets his eyes close briefly as his head lolls against the cushions. 

He really doesn’t mind Richie watching him. At all. In fact, he likes it, now that he understands it. It’s a foreign feeling, knowing someone wants to look at him, he thinks at first. Myra never looked at him this way, or indicated she wanted to. It’s always only been Richie.

So, maybe not such a foreign feeling—he’s just not used to it. Or, rather, to understanding what it is.

He doesn’t want to get too used to that feeling, necessarily. But he does want Richie to know—it’s fine. 

It’s more than fine.

He tilts his hips up slightly, breathing a little harder. After he pinches a nipple—something that makes him gasp, and gets him a sharp inhalation from Richie—he pushes his lounge pants further down, over his thighs and then over his knees and to the floor, where he kicks them off. He starts to stroke.

“Holy fuck,” Richie whispers. Eddie looks over at him; he’s frozen, holding his mug aloft, staring and breathing harder now, face flushed. He licks his lips reflexively. 

Eddie slows his strokes and makes them tighter; there’s something to be said for going fast but he’s not at that point yet and wants Richie to look his fill.

Richie is looking, most definitely. He’s so engrossed with looking that he’s not talking, and he still hasn’t set down his mug. Eddie’s almost never seen that from him before, and not like this; not even when they have sex. He’s not even moving. Richie Tozier, who has difficulty not talking and difficulty not moving, is frozen solid. (Solid, definitely, judging from the tenting of his pants.)

So Eddie takes his time, wondering how long he can keep him like this, how long he himself can take it before he has to come, and what seeing that will do to Richie. It’s not like Richie hasn’t seen him come before, of course, but he’s never just lain there and _looked_.

“Rich,” Eddie murmurs, throat dry. “You know…. I like you looking at me. I want you to look at me.”

Richie sets his mug down finally without looking at the table where he puts it. He blinks rapidly, and swallows, and finally nods. Almost absently, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, his palm presses down on his cock, over his pants, and he rubs himself slowly and firmly, still staring at Eddie, who’s still leisurely stroking himself. Showing off. Maybe.

But Eddie doesn't want this to be a mutual jerkoff session, not that there's anything wrong with that. If Richie gets too distracted from watching him, he might have to redirect him. Pretty funny thought to have, considering he's the one who didn't take his meds. 

“Just watch me,” he tells Richie, soft. “And don’t look away. I don’t want you to look away.”

Richie nods, just slightly. 

Now, Eddie’s watched his share of jerkoff videos. Granted, he didn’t start doing so until relatively recently, but he thinks he’s more than gotten the gist, the appeal, of jerking off not just for one’s own gratification but with an awareness of having an audience. Preening a little. Putting on a show. 

He can pretty well guess what it looks like to Richie when he cups and massages his balls, and shudders all over, the added stimulation making his cock drip over his fingers; when he rubs his thumb over the tip of his cock and bites his lip. Maybe Eddie should have closed his eyes, pretended he was jerking off alone and Richie wasn’t there, but… he doesn’t want to do that, he wants to watch Richie watching him, and not just to make sure he just keeps looking and doesn’t look away. He thinks, at this point, that he deserves to enjoy being looked at.

He wonders if he’s being selfish, if basking in the glow of being stared at by someone he knows wants him is narcissistic. He decides it’s probably not, but he doesn’t care if it is. Richie wants to look, and Eddie wants him to. After everything they’ve been through, they deserve to enjoy something as simple as this.

“It’s for you, sweetheart, you know that? It’s all for you,” Eddie tells him, and Richie blinks, watching Eddie roll his thumb over the tip of his cock again, smearing the pearl of precome there. “You get me like this. Just you.” And it’s true—no one’s even come close to getting him as hard and wanting as Richie does. 

He still goes slowly, or slow enough, for now. Taking his time, letting himself feel it, letting Richie stare and making sure he gets an eyeful. He knows himself well enough to know that he won’t be able to go at this pace for too much longer; he gets too impatient. But it feels good, just in and of itself—God, of course it does. Even a perfunctory jerkoff session feels good, even something no-frills and fast to just take the edge off. Knowing Richie is watching him is another level entirely.

He slides the hand he’d cupped his balls with up his stomach and pinches a nipple again; the stimulation makes his breath catch and makes him shiver, and Richie’s eyebrows leap up his forehead. He slows his stroke even more, makes it a tighter squeeze, and tilts his hips up like he’s seeking out the pressure. 

Eddie feels the urge to go faster now, and yeah, maybe it’s a little too soon if he really wants to draw this out, but something in him is starting to get impatient, wanting to come, wanting Richie to watch him get there, wanting to see how Richie reacts when he does.

He increases the speed. He gets wet enough typically, and now is no exception, that it’s easy going. And then, the dazed expression on Richie’s face as he stares at his cock makes him go faster still, hand tight, the sound obscene in the room that’s silent except for his and Richie’s audible panting breaths. 

It’s something about Richie’s breathing that really tips him over. That, and the look on his face, like he can’t get enough of what he’s seeing, like he’s trying to commit it to memory because he wants to think about it later, over and over. Like he’s used to doing that, to having to do that, and he’s good at it by now. 

Eddie wants to give him everything, to make sure he never has to go scrounging for scraps ever again. This is all he can do right now, but he senses it’s important to Richie, and by extension, it’s important to him.

Eddie plants his heels into the floor, arches his neck, tilting his head back and pressing into the couch. “I’m all yours, Richie,” he says, breathless. He’s still not typically one to be vocal (although he wants to be, now, thinks he might have reason to be from now on) but maybe he can’t help it a little bit this time, as Richie’s lashes flutter like what Eddie is saying to him is too much for him to process. His jaw drops and he gasps— “Fuck, Richie, _fuck_ ” —because it’s good, fuck, it’s good. 

He pinches his nipple again as his balls tighten and tingle, and he starts to come in thick spurts over his fingers, shuddering and gasping and closing his eyes tightly for a moment, until he opens them to watch Richie, who hasn’t moved, eyes glued to him, flushed and, it seems, trembling slightly. 

Moaning softly, Eddie strokes himself through the final spasms. Richie makes a soft sound in his throat, and Eddie manages to say, “Now you.”

Richie’s hand, which had been hovering near his cock but over his pants, now clumsily gets under his waistband and around himself, like he’s desperate for touch, but Eddie can’t see enough. 

“No,” he says, and Richie stops, looking stricken. “I want to see you,” Eddie adds, floating on a haze of bliss. Richie wriggles his hips to try and get his pants out of the way, and suddenly Eddie misses him—wants him close, wants to touch him. “C’mere, Rich,” he says. He’s always felt proprietary when it came to Richie—maybe all those feelings were practice for this. And what’s more, Richie likes being touched. By him.

Richie stumbles the few steps over to practically fall in his lap, trying to get his pants down further at the same time, waistband pulling briefly at his erection before it springs free, heavy and dark. 

Eddie wraps his come-slick hand around it, and Richie makes a noise like he’s been hurt. Eddie’s dry hand goes to the back of Richie’s neck, and just that simple touch feels good—Richie’s warm skin under his hand, as he slides it up to his hairline and his drying soft curls. Eddie draws him closer, their lips meet, and Eddie sighs against his mouth, Richie opening for him with ease. He squeezes Richie, almost too firmly, the way he knows Richie likes it, and Richie fucks into his fist, chasing the friction, making soft desperate sounds into the kiss. 

It doesn’t take him very long at all, Eddie’s fingers pulling at his hair and his nails scraping his scalp. As he shudders against him, Eddie’s dry hand moves under his soft shirt, palm gentle on his lower back, and he shifts back enough to touch his come-slick fingers to Richie’s lips. “Lick,” he says, like Richie needs the direction—he probably likes to hear it, anyway, Eddie knows he likes to hear his voice.

And Richie laps at his fingertips, sucks his fingers into his mouth, glides his tongue between them, shifts back to lick his palm. Half the time his eyes are closed, his breathing harsh like he can’t stand how much he likes this, too, and Eddie wonders if this will get him going again (it might even get Eddie going again). Objectively, maybe it should be gross, Richie licking come from both of them off his hand, but it actually makes him feel hot all over, and he’s never really thought Richie’s mouth was disgusting. Hell, being bare-ass on this couch is technically pretty gross, and he doesn’t seem to be moving anytime soon, so.

Once Richie’s sucked his and Eddie’s come clean from Eddie’s hand, he collapses against him with a groan, burying his hot face in Eddie’s neck like he’s embarrassed, but Eddie doesn’t think that’s really the case. Eddie slides a hand up his broad back under his shirt, feeling his ribcage expand and sink back as his breathing calms. His skin has a faint sheen of sweat.

“Fuck,” Richie eventually mutters, muffled, and Eddie kisses his slightly damp temple. Normally he’d be annoyed about them being all sweaty again, but he doesn’t really mind the idea of getting himself and Richie into a nice cool shower. They’d have plenty of time, and they both enjoy it when Eddie soaps him up—more chances for Eddie to touch him, anyway.

“I’m all yours,” Eddie tells him, soft. “You can look at me all you want.” He feels almost shy about it, like it’s an absurd thing to say, deigning to grant someone permission to look at him. Like, who does he think he is? 

Well, he’s someone Richie wants to feel free to look at, apparently, and who is Eddie to argue?

“Oh yeah? I can look at you all I want?” Richie’s amused, but there’s no sarcastic sting. “Even when you have bedhead?” he adds, sounding drowsy with the remnants of pleasure. Eddie laughs. Richie knows he’s picky about styling his hair.

“Especially when I have bedhead,” Eddie assures him, wrapping his arms around him. “When I have pillow creases in my face and sleep in the corners of my eyes.”

“That’s how you know it’s love,” Richie remarks, tone light, like Eddie’s letting him see him when he first wakes up is the one final thing truly confirming it all for him. 

Eddie squeezes him, feeling like he can’t ever hold him tightly enough. “It’s love, all right,” he agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy Girl in a Coma.


End file.
